As We Forgive Them

by William Le Queux

again to return toLondon, Gibbons and his wife stood at the door and wished us both apleasant journey.

  The house steward and his wife of course believed that the object of ourflying visit was to search the dead man's effects, and with the naturalcuriosity of servants, both were eager to know whether we had discoveredanything of interest, although they were unable to question us directly.Inquisitiveness increases with a servant's trustworthiness, until theconfidential servant usually knows as much of his master's or mistress'affairs as they do themselves. Burton Blair had been particularly fondof the Gibbonses, and it almost seemed as though the latter consideredthemselves slighted by not being informed of every disposition made bytheir dead master in his will.

  As it was, we only told them of one, the legacy of two hundred poundsapiece, which Blair had left them, and this had of course caused themthe most profound gratification.

  Having deposited Mabel at Grosvenor Square, and taken lingering leave ofher, I returned at once to Great Russell Street and found that Reggiehad just returned from the warehouse in Cannon Street.

  Acting upon my sweet little friend's appeal I told him nothing of theexciting incident of the previous night. All I explained was thesearching of Blair's writing-table and what we had discovered there.

  "Well, we ought I think to go and see that house by the crossways," hesaid when he had seen the photograph. "Doncaster is a quick run fromKing's Cross. We could get there and back to-morrow. I'm interested tosee the house to discover which poor Blair tramped all over England.This must have come into his possession," he added, handling thephotograph, "without any name or any clue whatever to its situation."

  I agreed that we ought to go and see for ourselves, therefore, afterspending a quiet evening at the Devonshire, we left by the early trainnext day for Yorkshire. On arrival at Doncaster station, to which weran through from London without a stop, we took a fly and drove out uponthe broad, snowy highroad through Bentley for about six miles or so,until, after skirting Owston Park we came suddenly upon the crossroadswhere stood the lonely old house, just as shown in the photograph.

  It was a quaint, old place, like one of those old toll-houses one seesin ancient prints, the old bar being of course missing. The gate-post,however, still remained, and snow having fallen in the night the scenepresented was truly wintry and picturesque. The antique house with itsbroad, smoking chimney at the end had apparently been added to since thephotograph had been taken, for at right angles was a new wing of redbrick, converting it into quite a comfortable abode. Yet, as weapproached, the old place rising out of the white, snow-covered plainbreathed mutely of those forgotten days when the York and London coachespassed it, when masked gentlemen-of-the-road lurked in these dark, firplantations which stood out beyond the open common at Kirkhouse Green,and when the post-boys were never tired of singing the praises of thosewonderful cheeses at the old _Bell_ in Stilton.

  Our driver passed the place and about a quarter of a mile further on westopped him, alighted and walked back together, ordering the man toawait us.

  On knocking at the door an aged old woman in cap and ribbons, opened it,whereupon Reggie, who assumed the position of spokesman, made excusethat we were passing, and, noticing by its exterior that the place wasevidently an old toll-house, could not resist the inducement to call andrequest to be allowed to look within.

  "I'm sure you're very welcome, gentlemen," answered the woman, in herbroad, Yorkshire dialect. "It's an old place and lots o' folk have beenhere and looked over it in my time."

  Across the room were the black old beams of two centuries before, theold chimney-corner looked warm and cosy with its oaken, well-polishedsettle, and the big pot simmering upon the fire. The furniture, too,was little changed since the old coaching days, while about the placewas a general air of affluence and comfort.

  "You've lived here a long time, I suppose?" Reggie inquired, when wehad glanced around and noted the little lancet window in thechimney-corner whence the toll-keeper in the old days could obtain aview for miles along the highroad that ran away across the openmoorlands.

  "I've been here this three-and-twenty years come next Michaelmas."

  "And your husband?"

  "Oh! he's here," she laughed, then called, "Come here, Henry, where areyou?" and then she added, "He's never left here once since he came homefrom sea eighteen years ago. We're both so very attached to the oldplace. A bit lonely, folks would call it, but Burghwallis is only amile away."

  At mention of her husband's return from sea we both pricked up our ears.Here was evidently the man for whom Burton Blair had searched thelength and breadth of England.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN.

  WHICH CONTAINS A CLUE.

  A door opened and there came forward a tall, thin, wiry old man withwhite hair and a pointed grey beard. He had evidently retired on ourarrival in order to change his coat, for he wore a blue reefer jacketwhich had had but little wear, but the collar of which was twisted,showing that he had only that moment assumed it.

  His face was deeply wrinkled with long, straight furrows across thebrows; the countenance of a man who for years had been exposed torigours of wind and weather in varying climates.

  Having welcomed us, he laughed lightly when we explained our admirationfor old houses. We were Londoners, we explained, and toll-houses andtheir associations with the antiquated locomotion of the past alwayscharmed us.

  "Yes," he said, in a rather refined voice for such a rough exterior,"they were exciting days, those. Nowadays the motor car has taken theplace of the picturesque coach and team, and they rush past herebackwards and forwards, blowing their horns at every hour of the day andnight. Half the time we have a constable lying in wait in the backgarden ready to time them on to Campsall, and take 'em to the PettySessions afterwards!" he laughed; "and fancy this at the very spot whereClaude Duval held up the Duke of Northumberland and afterwards gallantlyescorted Lady Mary Percy back to Selby."

  The old fellow seemed to deplore the passing of the good old days, forhe was one of what is known as "the old school," full of narrow-mindedprejudices against every new-fangled idea, whether it be in medicine,religion or politics, and declaring that when he was a youth men weremen and could hold their own successfully against the foreigner, eitherin the peace of commerce or in the clash of arms.

  To my utter surprise he told us that his name was Hales--the same asthat of Mabel's secret lover, and as we chatted with him we learned thathe had been a good many years at sea, mostly in the Atlantic andMediterranean trades.

  "Well, you seem pretty comfortable now," I remarked, smiling, "a cosyhouse, a good wife, and everything to make you happy."

  "You're right," he answered, taking down a long clay pipe from the rackover the open hearth. "A man wants nowt more. I'm contented enough andI only wish everybody in Yorkshire was as comfortable this hardweather."

  The aged pair seemed flattered at receiving us as visitors, andgood-naturedly offered us a glass of ale.

  "It's home-brewed, you know," declared Mrs. Hales. "The likes of uscan't afford wine. Just taste it," she urged, and being thus pressed wewere glad of an excuse to extend our visit.

  The old lady had bustled out to the kitchen to fetch glasses, whenReggie rose to his feet, closed the door quickly, and, turning to Hales,said in a low voice--

  "We want to have five minutes' private conversation with you, Mr. Hales.Do you recognise this?" and he drew forth the photograph and held itbefore the old man's eyes.

  "Why, it's a picture o' my house," he exclaimed in surprise. "Butwhat's the matter!"

  "Nothing, only just answer my questions. They are most important, andour real object in coming here is to put them to you. First, have youever known a man named Blair--Burton Blair."

  "Burton Blair!" echoed the old fellow, his hands on the arms of hischair as he leaned forward intently. "Yes, why?"

  "He discovered a secret, didn't he?"

  "Yes, through me--made millions out of it, they say."


  "When did you last see him?"

  "About five or six years ago."

  "When he discovered you living here?"

  "That's it. He searched every road in England to find me."

  "You gave him this photograph?"

  "No, I think he stole it."

  "Where did you first meet him?"

  "On board the _Mary Crowle_ in the port of Antwerp. He was at sea, likemyself. But why do you wish to know all this?"

  "Because," answered Reggie, "Burton Blair is dead, and his secret hasbeen bequeathed to my friend here, Mr. Gilbert Greenwood."

  "Burton Blair dead!" cried the old man,